Rapture
by Bialy
Summary: Rigsby has, in his time, been sure of a great many things, but right here and right now, he is more sure than he has ever been in his life. RigsbyxVan Pelt. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist, or any of the characters or situations involved in it. I'm making no profit off this. The lyrics at the start of this fic are from the song True To Me by Metro Station, which gave me the idea I needed.

Note: My first attempt at a fic for this show, so I would appreciate any feedback. Especially on my characterisation of Rigsby seeing as, you know, that's pretty much the only thing there is in this fic. I've wanted to try some Rigsby/Van Pelt for a while, and got the right idea to try it with today. As far as I know, there is no episode where Rigsby takes a bullet for Van Pelt. There could be, I just haven't seen it or heard about it. But this isn't written to accompany any episode, it's just a little thing that I guess you could fit in anywhere. If it's way off, I apologise. If it's not, please enjoy.

x

**Rapture**

-

_she's such a rush she's such a crush  
she's one in a million  
she's such a rush can't get enough  
she's pumping through my veins  
she's too fun to be so gone with me  
too good to be true to me_

-

Rigsby has, in his life, been sure of a great many things.

He'll make no bones about it, he doesn't think of himself as a complicated man. And when he gets an idea in his head, more often than not he'll run with that, like it's an absolute truth, until he's proven wrong. He's okay with that, because for the most part, it's borne him well. He's been sure of someone's guilt, sure of someone's innocence, sure he's not paying for _that_ pizza, but right here and right now, he is more sure than he has ever been in his life.

Rigsby is _sure_ he and Van Pelt are meant to be together.

In her sleep, she is beautiful. She's always beautiful. He can't stop watching her. Her eyes are closed, her chest is rising and falling rhythmically. She's wearing a t-shirt - _his_ t-shirt, way too big for her - and her hair is fanned out over the pillow - _his _pillow - like amber, like strands of fire. Looking at her, Rigsby is suddenly struck by just how amazing this girl really is. And here and now, tonight, she is his. It's like possessing heaven, or touching the sky, or having fireworks explode inside you. Nothing can ever compare to this. He knows, with startling certainty, that he doesn't deserve her, and he knows, just as surely, that he can never be happy without her.

It had happened so suddenly. Another close call, death breathing down his neck, a result of him acting on instinct yet again. And it turned out, him almost dying was what it was took. After months and months of slowly, coyly, trying to whittle away at her defences, get her to even _consider_ him, and all it took was taking a bullet for her, and she swooned into his arms.

Actually, he swooned into her arms, and shortly after proceeded to pass out from pain and blood loss. But _after_ the whole just-been-shot thing, when he was back to being conscious and manly and bullet-free, Van Pelt had come to visit him in hospital. Alone.

She'd just sat there for a while, then said something like "you have to stop doing things like this." He thinks he probably said something affirming back to her. She'd smiled, and for Rigsby, seeing her smile is like coming to life. It sent the same strange thrills through him as always, the same harsh rush of excitement, the same bubbly churning in his stomach. This girl, she set his world on fire.

Then her face clouded. He remembers thinking something was wrong, and the floor of his gut crashed through. Was she okay? Had she been hurt? For a heartbreaking, horrifying moment, he'd been absolutely certain that something had happened to her while he'd been out, and his own stupidity had meant he hadn't been there to protect her. He should _always_ be there to protect her. He remembers the tightening in his throat, the panic gnawing at him. Between her expression changing and the next time she spoke, three seconds had passed.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do if something knocks you out for good, Rigsby."

Relief had flooded through him. As soon as he'd got past the initial euphoria of 'Grace Van Pelt is not going to die because I am an idiot', he remembers grinning at her, telling her she'd find some other goof to look after her, and then, _then_, he'd seen her eyes, and then he'd actually _listened_ to what she said, played back in his head -

And then her hand was awkwardly, uncomfortably, on the wounded side of his chest, and her mouth was coming closer to his, and she looked uncertain, and a little bit afraid, and determined, and then…

And then Rigsby doesn't remember most of the rest of that day.

And now they're here.

He remembers everything. The shy glances on his first day back at work, the accidental brushes of their hands when he passed files to her, that they both knew weren't accidental. Her closeness when she leaned over his shoulder to check something on his desk. The soft knock on his door at ten to nine, to find her standing there, looking nervous and resolute, and the way she said, "I've decided that I want this."

The softness of her skin, the heat of her breath, the tender strength of his hold on her, the feeling of her weight in his arms. Her smile.

He knows that there isn't going to be any going back, that she isn't going to wake up and change her mind. He knows because this is Van Pelt, and Van Pelt doesn't do anything unless she's sure, doesn't let anything happen that's out of her control. She's thought about this, she _wants_ this. She chose _him_. And Rigsby, he's determined to show her it was the right choice to make. He knows it is.

He's sure of it.


End file.
